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Twenty-something years ago, when I was slightly younger and more single than I am at the moment, I packed a small orange suitcase, a sleeping bag and a passport. Then I went to Europe and got on a bus. For three weeks.

A couple of weekends ago, we piled into the car and headed to the States for a wedding. Between the four of us, we took a computer, an iPod, three cellphones and five chargers, one for each device.

We took maps, bathing suits, baseball tickets, theatre tickets, and a variety of credit cards. We took two guidebooks of Manhattan, where we would be spending roughly 12 hours. That’s six hours per guidebook.

We were only going to be gone four days, but the car was so full I thought I might have to run along behind.

Packing aside, the only thing that really matters on a road trip is ensuring everyone has a role to play. This doesn’t apply if you have a toddler, whose role it might be to screech or throw up non-stop from one exit to the next. My brother and his wife once dubbed their car the Vomit Comet, after the kids contracted a stomach bug somewhere in Colorado.

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My role has long been the family travel agent. The people at Expedia.ca might want to give me a call; I can book and rebook a hotel like nobody’s business.

My other role is to assemble the snacks. We normally take our little cooler with some water in it, maybe some grapes. The grapes sit in the cooler for a day or two, slowly marching toward their ultimate raisin destiny, until someone throws them out in disgust. “Where are the Oreos?”

This time, in a radical move, I didn’t pack any food, thinking that perhaps we could last from the KFC at one stop to the McDonald’s at the next.

(Incidentally, you realize your life has gone horribly off-track when you find yourself eating French fries in a rest-stop bathroom because the line to the ladies room is so long and you might just starve to death otherwise. Kim Kardashian probably doesn’t have to eat in the ladies room; I bet her body guard goes in and fetches the food for her: “James, I’d like a meatball sub. No cheese.”)

About an hour or so into our 10-hour trip, the driver looks around and says “Guess we don’t have any food, eh?”

Big Greek Husband is the driver. His role is solely to drive every inch, every mile, every last millimetre of the way. Sometimes, along a quiet patch of interstate, I like to say, “Well, I think I could drive this.”

This will draw an encouraging response like “Hmph.” Doesn’t bother me; I’m not much of a highway driver, to tell you the truth.

The role of the people in the back seat is, first, to never ask “Are we there yet?” and, second, to entertain the people in the front seat. The younger kid used to get around the “Are there yet?” question by wondering: “What time are we driving until today?”

The older kid’s contribution is to spout entertainment trivia. For instance: Big BangTheory star Jim Parsons, who we’re about to see on Broadway in a revival of Harvey, is 39. Thirty-nine. If you’re 19, the number 39 creaks as you say it. If you’re 46, 39 rings a distant bell as that time right before you qualified as middle-aged.

The younger kid controls the iPod. This can involve a strange mix; Gotye, U2, Carly Rae Jepsen. As we head on down the highway, we hit repeat on “Call Me Maybe” about four times. The kid teaches me a catchy little dance you can do in your seat.

All that singing and dancing makes a person hungry. Good thing there’s a Tim Hortons coming up.

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